


Performance

by Wrespawn



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Blackmail, Boys in Chains, Death Threats, Fake AH Crew, Female Jack Pattillo, Gun Violence, Immortal Fake AH Crew, Kidnapping, Knifeplay, M/M, Murder, Praise Kink, Reader-Insert, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence, Torture, more of this is consensual than you think but not all of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-01 15:09:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17869556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrespawn/pseuds/Wrespawn
Summary: You’ve been captured by the Fake AH Crew, and you have information that they want.  Since you won’t talk, they’re going to put on a little performance that might change your mind.Collab with @alastair-made-me-undo-it, part of the respawn universe (https://archiveofourown.org/works/17510561)Warnings: Torture, mostly centered around shallow lacerations, with the purpose of blackmailing a character into sharing information.  A character “breaks” and offers to do “anything” if their tormentor will stop.  Threats of sexual violence, with some nonconsensual touching playing out.  Threats of heavy gore, though no heavy gore plays out.  One character is forced to watch while another is tortured.  Gun violence.  Praise in an obviously-violent context. Part of this story involves a character “begging for death” and acting relieved that he’s going to “die.”  Although this is all a performance, and his “death” will not be permanent, he does really sell it.  Near the end of the fic are some kidnapping tropes, including blindfolds and being thrown in the back of a car. None of the content warnings are romanticized; the reader-insert character is terrified the whole time and not enjoying themselves.





	Performance

The basement is damp and cold, air growing steadily more chilled the more staircases you’re marched down, the more heavy doors slam behind you.  The two people holding your arms – a smiling woman and a tattooed man – keep their grips firm, hauling you down and down.  You’re at least two, maybe three, levels underground now, you think. You feel the weight of the earth above you as clearly as you feel the firm hands on your cuffed arms.

It’s a scare tactic, and a transparent one.  The Fakes are going to interrogate you, and clearly they’re hoping that the goddamn building will do some of the work for them.  You weren’t planning to break anyway, but if they don’t step up their game, it’s gonna be easy to keep your nerve.

“…So what’s all this?”  You break the silence, risking some confidence.  Your voice echoes in the dim darkness.  “Where are we going? Some kind of sex torture dungeon?”

“Oh, good guess!” The tall woman squeezes your arm affectionately, sharp nails digging into your skin. “This one caught on quick, Kingpin!”

“Caught on quick?  Nah.” The tattooed man on your other side makes a dismissive gesture with the hand that’s not locked firmly around your bicep. “That’s a pretty standard ‘captured goon’ quip. Not only do they not know shit, they’re not even trying that hard.”

“Hey, fuck you guys.” They’re marching you forward at an uncomfortable pace. It’s taking more than you care to admit just to keep up. “First of all, I’m fucking hilarious. And second, you’re nuts if you think I’m gonna break. I’ve been trained for this.”

“‘Course you have, sweetie.” The woman speaks as though it’s common sense, as though she’s already accepted that they won’t break you. “You’re gonna do so well.”

“Gonna make us all proud,” adds the tattooed man.

“So proud!  Oh honey, I can’t wait to see how well you do!  But I’m afraid you’ll have to wait in line a bit before we can all watch you perform.”

“Yeah, we, ah…” The man snickers. “We kinda double-booked ourselves, as far as torture goes.”

One more door, and then you stop. The sudden absence of forward movement is jarring, and your captors steady you as you stumble.  The woman pushes the door open, and the sight beyond is the first thing that makes you flinch.

Oh shit, this fucking is a torture dungeon.  And it’s occupied.

A man hangs from the wall in chains, already marked by shallow cuts, hair damp with sweat, clothing sliced away in places to expose more injured skin.  Behind his glasses, his frightened gaze flicks between you and your pair of captors, his breath still heavy with the obvious echoes of fear and pain.  You can tell he’s trying to keep his back straight, his eyes up, his face brave, but it’s not working.  

Shit, what did they do to him?  …And what are they about to do to you?  The idea of breaking under torture had seemed ridiculous out in the sunlight, but here, staring into those frightened eyes, seeing the blood splatters on the floor…

“Right this way, please.” The woman guides you sideways, along the wall, where- fuck, there are chairs. Actual, comfortable chairs, like you’ve been relegated to some interrogation waiting room.  It almost feels like there should be potted plants and elevator music.

You sink into the middle chair, your captors seated on either side of you. Neither of them so much as loosens their grip.  You jolt as you realize there’s another man in the room, leaning thoughtfully over a table strewn with blood-splattered implements.  You didn’t notice him right away.  For all his height and bulk, he seems to melt into the shadows. With his back to you, all you can make out is broad shoulders and a leather jacket, but then he turns and you see his face.

You press back into your chair, your chest suddenly tight. You know that face. You’ve seen it on the news more than once, in blurred pictures and shaky cell phone footage.  You know the paint on that face.

That’s the Vagabond.

“…Another one?” His voice is low and chillingly soft, velvet against your neck.  He smiles behind his paint, selecting an already-dripping knife from the table and dancing his fingers over the blade.  “Mmmh.  You’re spoiling me.”

The woman nods cheerfully. “Mmm-hm!  Oh, but be careful with this one. You probably won’t be able to break them, they have  _training_.”

…You may have fucked up just a little.

“Training, hm?” The Vagabond’s smile is growing. He turns back to his victim, touches knife to skin, and your eyes go wide as he drags it in a long, slow line across the man’s ribs, drawing a strangled cry. “So do I.”

You can’t breathe. Red is following the path of the blade, blooming on the man’s white shirt like an opening flower. Fuck, “white” might not be an accurate descriptor for that shirt anymore.  _“Shirt_ ” might not be accurate, even, not with so many cuts.  The Vagabond’s knife has reduced the shirt to lace, bloody négligé showing flashes of sliced skin.

The man with the tattoos tsks in disapproval.  “Just the knife this time?  I’m disappointed.”

“You were hoping for something else, Kingpin?”

“I thought maybe…”  The man shifts on the chair, letting out a longing breath.  “…we’d open the door and see your little playmate hanging from his manacles, pants gone, legs wrapped around your waist so his arms aren’t ripped from their sockets.  Squirming where he hangs while you  _interrogate_  him.”

While he… oh god.  Cold realization is settling in your stomach.  Fuck fuck fuck fuck, the Vagabond gets off on this.  This isn’t business, this is pleasure. The way you’re being held still by the two hands on your arms – one tattooed and one with painted nails, both squeezing hungrily – fuck, they’re  _all_  getting off on this.  You’re not just an informant, you’re the evening’s entertainment.

“Nah, first thing he did was offer to blow me.” The Vagabond casually continues to cut as he speaks, drawing a second line to match the first. Two parallel streaks of red, droplets running downward to connect them like railroad tracks. “It’s not any fun if it’s consensual.  I like to feel them  _struggle_.”

The man in chains whimpers, squirming feebly under the Vagabond’s blade.  You can see him holding back  _something_  behind his clenched teeth, maybe curses or maybe begging or maybe just screams.  Still trying to be brave.  Whatever it is, it slips out in thin, wretched noises as the Vagabond’s knife plays with him.

“Well, what about this one?” The tattooed man gives your arm a little shake, and you flinch back, not wanting to be seen. “You gonna impale ‘em on more than just your knife?”

Your heart is starting to quicken uncomfortably.  You were expecting the interrogation to involve some big talk and some good ol’ blunt violence, not this slow torture, not the other thing they’re talking about, not the Vagabond slotted between your shaking legs while he–

The Vagabond gives you an interested look.  “Are they offering?”

You shake your head frantically before you can think better of it.  The man and woman holding you both laugh, and your face flushes in embarrassment, but the Vagabond just bites his lip.

“Good.”

…Fuck, no, he’s into that. This might’ve been a “no means yes means no” scenario; your non-consent giving him exactly what he wants. But, on the other hand, if you had said yes–

You’re pretty sure you just lost a game you didn’t realize was being played.

Mercifully, the Vagabond’s gaze lifts away, turning his attention back to his current victim.  It feels like a physical weight no longer pressing down on your chest.  You let out a shaking breath.  God, you’re still handcuffed and trapped in the grip of two Fakes, but you felt just as locked in place by those eyes as you did by the physical restraints.  You slump in relief, hands on your arms still holding you up.  

The relief doesn’t last long.  The show is continuing.

The Vagabond’s knife trails over his victim’s skin, not cutting so much as cataloguing, like it’s searching for new places to slice. You watch, transfixed in spite of yourself.  You wonder what he’s looking for.  Unbroken skin, is your best guess. But, fuck; there’s not a lot of that left.

That seems to be the Vagabond’s conclusion too.  He drags his fingers over a fresh cut, almost lovingly, sighing as the captive hisses in pain.

“I’ll hand it to you, you’ve been a tough one.”  His touch wanders down, finger-painting with the blood, smearing it through other cuts.  “Look how pretty I’ve made you, and you’re still not talking.  Your criminal connections would be so proud of you.”

The captive meets the Vagabond’s gaze, and it seems to take all his strength to choke out words.  “S-screw you, you sick bastard.”

“Sick bastard, hm?”  The Vagabond chuckles, grabbing his victim’s jaw roughly.  “Do you offer to blow every sick bastard you meet?

“Nnh–”

With another sigh, the Vagabond lets go and lowers his knife.  For a moment, you’re gasping in relief along with the captive, though you suspect the man in chains knows as well as you do that the respite will be short-lived.

“I don’t always get to play  _rough_  with my toys…” His knife hangs, momentarily, at his side. You can hear the soft drip of blood from the sharp tip onto the concrete floor.  “But I think you’ve earned it.  You’ve had more than enough foreplay.”

Both your captors are leaning forward in their seats, pulling you with them. Making you a reluctant witness to whatever horror is coming next.

The Vagabond reaches out, removing his victim’s glasses with impossible gentleness. He folds them carefully and sets them aside, placed delicately beside his bloodstained spread of knives.

“There we go…” He strokes a hand down his victim’s face. Roughly, but not unkindly. “That’s much better. Trust me; you’re not gonna wanna see what I’m about to do to you.”

Dread is twisting in your stomach.   _You_  can see everything just fine.  You can see the Vagabond’s gloved hand sliding up under the captive’s torn and bloody shirt, peeling it away from his slashed belly and dragging it up.  A slow, bloody undressing that has the captive trembling.  You can see the Vagabond’s knife trail down that tense belly, tickling down from sternum to navel.

“I’m running out of skin to play with,” the Vagabond murmurs.  “Can’t do much more to your outsides.  But you still have your… insides.”

The knife trails back up, then pauses just below the ribcage.  Each heaving breath presses the captive’s chest against the tip.  Oh no.  You know what he’s going to do, and you don’t want to see it–

“…What’s wrong?”  The Vagabond’s free hand slides down the captive’s belly, tracing where his knife is about to go.  His breath is heavy.  “You seemed so interested in this before, when I first pulled the knife out.”  

“Nnn– w-wait, please–”

His hand dips lower, pressing between the captive’s legs,  _squeezing_.  You can hear the captive choke.  The knife is pressing, harder, you can see blood leaking around the tip–

“You already offered to let me  _inside_  you–”

“S-stop!”

It’s almost a scream, shaking and high-pitched and broken.  It jolts you in your seat, your heart almost obeying his command.  Every second of this has been horrible, but seeing him break twists in your gut like a knife.  There’s nothing left in the captive’s eyes, no strength, no defiance.  His breath is so heavy he can barely speak between heaves, his words shaking and half-sobbing.

“S-stop, don’t do it, I… I’ll tell you what you want, just- n-no more, please…”

“Okay, no more.” The Vagabond sets down his knife and instead cups the captive’s face with his empty hand, suddenly tender. He lowers his voice, as though speaking to a frightened animal.  “Shhhh, that’s enough, yeah?  You did good.  Real tough guy, but you know when to stop, don’t you?”

The captive nods, sickeningly grateful for the gentle touch, the kind words.  The Vagabond’s thumb brushes his cheek, so sweetly.

“Go on.  Tell me what you know.”

The man pulls in a shuddering breath, speaking as though the very words themselves are frightening. “S-sunday. In the evening. H-he gets…real drunk. Goes to confession and spends the rest of the day t-throwing phones, breaking glasses…w-when the sun goes down, he sends his guards out of the room, d-draws the curtains, does lines of coke off her p-picture…” The man shudders, shutting his eyes as though he could avert his gaze from the very scene he was describing. “Fuck, he…he wouldn’t even f-feel a knife to the throat.”

“ _Good_  boy.”  The Vagabond’s voice is so gentle, so warm.  His hand strokes down the captive’s face.  “That’s all we needed from you.  Was that so hard?”

The captive’s breath is only quickening.  “B-but…but his son will k-know it was me- h-he’ll know I ratted on him, shit shit shit–  I s-should fucking shoot myself now, the second you let me go I’m fucking dead, he’s gonna make what you did to me look like–”

“Want a little help with that?” The Vagabond reaches under his jacket, then draws out a sleek silver handgun.  He taps the barrel gently between his captive’s eyes.  “I can make all the pain go away.  Give you some nice, soothing  _silence_.  Want I should make it quick? See you from this world before your betrayal has even left the room?”

You can’t breathe. The man is looking at the gun as though it’s a salvation; that’s hope in his eyes as he stares down the barrel.  The last trace of bravery, fragile as it was, is gone from his gaze, and god you miss it.  You want to hear him say “screw you” again, you don’t want to hear the words you know he’s about to say–

“Yes.” The man breaths the word, speaking as though he’s hardly daring to believe it. “Yes, make it…make it quick. Please. A quick death would be…more than I can hope for.”

The Vagabond chuckles. His hand slides around the back of the captive’s head, gently holding it as though they were about to kiss, and presses the gun against his forehead. “Ain’t it the truth, friend.”

He fires.

You can’t stop the horrified scream that slips out of you.

You’ve seen bodies before. Shit happens in your line of work, and it’s long since stopped being the  _reason_  you drink and more like a convenient excuse, but… it’s never been like this.  This man wasn’t gunned down in a violent exchange, hot and quick and over in an instant.  This was a slow, cruel grind, he slowly broke, he took the bullet with pleasure by the end, and…

… And you’re next.

The Vagabond is unfastening his last victim’s manacles, softly humming to himself, as though taking a life has left him in a good mood. The body slumps to the floor, limp and dead. Just a shell to be dragged aside, left in the corner to…

Fuck. To make room for you.

It doesn’t feel real. You’re numb as your captors lift you from your chair, forcing you to stand. They guide you across the room, and god you want to struggle but you’re so weak with terror that the best you can do is stumble instead of follow.  God, no, you don’t want to go there, you don’t want to be chained up where the other one was, you don’t want to be  _next_ –

Your captors push you against the bloodstained wall.   It’s sticky behind you, your head fitting perfectly into the bloody, splattered outline left by–

Oh god.

“You know…” The Vagabond’s tone is conversational as he raises your cuffed arms, unlocking one cuff just long enough to press your wrist into the waiting manacle, clicking it shut with devastating finality. “I bet our favorite newbie would really like to poke his head in.  You know, while the toy is still  _fresh_.”

“Ooh, there’s an idea!” The woman is excited, clapping her hands together as your other wrist is locked into place. “You could tag team them, and he must be so worked up from watching… There’s still time to have our lovely hostage dangling from those chains with someone between their shaking legs.”

You press your shaking legs together by reflex.  Your skin is tingling, as though in anticipation of the cruel press of a knife.  Fuck, you’re not ready for this, you’re not ready.

The tattooed man lets out a horny groan. “Shit, he’d  _destroy_  a hostage if we let him fuck them while Vagabond was cutting them up.”  

You think you might pass out. There’s a strange rushing sound in your ears. You’re chained, you can’t stop them, they’re going to–

Who the fuck is “the newbie?”

The tattooed man lifts his gaze, staring at something on the ceiling.  Blearily, you follow his eyes, and jolt as you catch sight of a camera.

Holy shit someone is watching.

“Hey, Golden Boy.”  The tattooed man waves at the camera.  “Rimmy, if Golden Boy is on his knees right now, let him up to breathe for a second.  Golden Boy, bring Rimmy down to the party room.  We’ve got a treat for him.”  He turns back to the Vagabond.  “You know, I’m proud of you.  Sharing your shiny new toy, even though you  _really_  want to play with it yourself.”

The Vagabond chuckles, still trailing his fingers over his knife.  “Oh, it’s hardly a sacrifice.  Watching him work will be a  _pleasure_.”

A horrible thought drifts through your fear-addled mind, locking around your heart like a cage.  The Fakes haven’t once asked you for information, not since they brought you here.  They almost don’t seem to care if you talk or not.  What if… what if this whole thing is just an excuse to have some twisted violent fun?  

What if you offer to talk and they won’t  _stop_?

The door creaks open and your gaze snaps up.  Two men step into the room.  One of them — the tall slender one — is giving you a knowing smirk, tapping two fingers against his lips.  A few buttons on his navy dress shirt are undone, and there’s a flush to his cheeks.  But he’s not the one that catches your eye.

There’s no smile on the other man’s face.  You can hear his breath from here, heavy and hungry.  He’s looking at you like he he wants to sink his  _teeth_  into you.

The Vagabond steps out of the way, then the woman follows suit.  It somehow feels like your protection is being stripped away.  You’re shaking against the cold wall, pressed back against it as though you had somewhere to hide.  Finally, the tattooed man steps out of the way, nodding at the newcomer.

“Looks good, right?  Go on, have a taste.”

The man crosses the room in three thumping steps. You thought you were already pressed against the wall, but he somehow slams you against it, driving the wind from you.  His hand is fisted in your shirt, your heart thumping under his knuckles, his face buried in your neck.  Shit, he’s  _strong_.  You can feel his breath on your skin, hot, ravenous.

And lower down…  _something_  is digging into your leg.  Something hard, hot, and big.  Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

“You feel that?”  He’s panting, grinding against you.  “That’s for you.  That’s from watching them chain you up, thinking about how much you’re gonna cry and beg when your blood is dripping on the floor.”  He groans, his teeth scraping your neck.  “God, I wanna be the one making you  _scream_ –”

“N-no!”  The word bursts out of you, your body trembling under his grip.  “Stop, stop, I’ll talk!  I’ll tell you whatever you want,  _please_ , just let me go!”

Faintly, through the pounding panic in your ears, you can hear someone laughing.  The man pulls back from you, and you gasp as though you’ve come up from water for air.  Your swaying vision focuses on the tattooed man, his hand twisted in the back of the newcomer’s shirt.  Fuck, the newcomer practically had to be pried off you with a crowbar.  The man hasn’t stopped eating you up with his eyes, his jaw tense with frustrated desire.

“Down, boy,” chuckles the tattooed man.  “That’s what we wanted them to say.”  

You can’t believe it.  You can’t believe they’re giving you this, letting you control even the smallest thing.  Each heaving breath brings too much oxygen to your spinning head, but you can’t stop gasping.

The Vagabond sighs, disappointed.  “That easy, hm?  Spoilsport.”

“It’s called efficiency, Vagabond.”  The tattooed man continues chuckling as he turns his gaze to you.  “…You were saying?”

You swallow, struggling to meet their eyes.  Your defeated gaze flicks between them briefly, from the way the woman is biting her lip, to the Vagabond’s fingers flicking over his knife, and finally to the burning gaze of the man who bit your neck.  If it weren’t for the chains on your wrists, you’re not sure if you could stand.

It won’t bother them if you hold out for longer.  In fact, they’ll have more fun if you do.  The only one who has something to gain from breaking early… is you.

“I…”  Your voice is weak.  Broken.  Just like you.  You drop your head, going limp against the wall.  “I-I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

—-

You can’t believe the Fakes are letting you go.

The trunk of the car is cramped, and growing uncomfortably warm.  Every bump on the road jostles you.  You’re cuffed and blindfolded, hunkering in the darkness as the Fakes drive you away from their base.  Hopefully, it’s to keep their promise and let you go, and not to leave you in a ditch with a bullet in your skull.

You won’t know until they let you out.

The car slows, and the engine cuts off.  You try to keep your breath even in the darkness as you hear a door slam, hear boots crunch on gravel outside.  One pair of footsteps; they must not think this is a job that will require two people.  The trunk creaks as it opens, and for a moment the darkness over your eyes gets less dark, sunlight filtering through the cloth of the blindfold.  

A rough hand grabs your arm, hauling you out of the trunk as you stumble.  You can’t see where you are, but you don’t hear any cars, and it smells like dirt and sun.  You must be outside the city.  This could be salvation, but your heart is pounding, waiting to feel the cold barrel of a gun nudge against your head while the world is still dark.  

For the first time, a voice speaks, and something about it is strangely familiar.

“There you go, asshole.  Freedom sweet freedom.”

You jolt when a hand grabs the blindfold.  It yanks away, and you flinch from the sudden sunlight.  Before you can keep your eyes open, the man shoves you so hard that you topple to the ground, landing on your cuffed hands with a yelp.  The voice laughs as you wince.  

“Heh, sorry.  I’m not allowed to kill you, but I couldn’t resist.”

As the sun blots clear from your vision, you can finally see the man who brought you here.  Your heart almost stops.

There’s not a scratch on him.  He stands over you in a battered brown leather jacket, smirking, a gun cocked in his hand and pointed at the sky.  That’s the man in the chains.  The one you saw tortured and killed before your eyes.  The one who sobbed under the Vagabond’s knife, begged for death, took a bullet to the skull, fuck you still have his blood crusted on your hair–

He’s standing.  Grinning down at you.

“Hey, when you crawl back to your small-time buddies…”  The man flicks his gun.  “Tell ‘em not to  _fuck_  with the Fakes.  You got it?”

 


End file.
